


The Hardy Boys

by jerseydevious



Series: Earth-JD [3]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, i the author continue my crusade of being the most insufferable woman on earth to bring you this, robin ver. 1 did not start out quippy and fun in fact he was very sad, the joe chill of good writing declared me an enemy of the state and murdered me at quiznos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 15:46:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13954833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerseydevious/pseuds/jerseydevious
Summary: Dick is expelled.





	The Hardy Boys

**Author's Note:**

> So, thank God and all his angels for @audreycritter, firstly, who is one of the greatest women I've ever met, so shoutout to Audrey. I feel I honestly don't say that enough. You wouldn't have this fic without her, so if you liked it, go read her fics, please. In fact even if you did not like it go read her fics. You're _wild_ if you don't want to read Audrey's fics.
> 
> That said, welcome. I know I said I was going to do chapter fics, and yeah, those are on their way. They're long, though, and take time, and in the interim I found myself a story I was invested in writing that also happen to set up some motifs I'm planning on playing with in the long run, so. Excellent. 
> 
> Beware the following if sadness and trauma are not your thing, but if they are not your thing may I suggest you try, like, literally any comic other than Batman

The clock ticked. It ticked and tocked and the room around Dick was sullen as ever. He’d only wandered in here once or twice, over the last month, but he found it to be dark and dreary. It smelled like sweet old smoke, and the walls were a rich brown, with deep red carpet and thick oak desks and stuffy bookshelves and the grandfather clock that presided over all with its one pale, glass eye. It ticked. The eye did not blink.

 

Far down the hall, Mr. Pennyworth was standing at the phone and talking with Mr. Wayne in a hushed voice. Dick could imagine the conversation: _… violent, aggressive boy, been expelled, not certain you can handle it, take him back, take him back, take him back._

 

Dick clenched his fist. The bandages over his split knuckles tightened. The blood in his ears roared, and called for more blood, more pain; he wanted to pound his fist into that rich jerk’s face and hit until it cracked open and spilled pus like an infected sore. Instead of a brain Dick imagined Danny Rolsh just had cockroaches, and if Dick could hit him hard enough all the ugly bugs that made him so mean all the time would crawl out of his ears. Dick would show that pompous, sneering maggot who the real rescue case was.

 

Dick stopped his train of thought, and beat against his forehead with his flat palm. He tried to think of something—anything—that would make this keen, sharp need leave him alone, that would make everything go quiet. The beating helped. He hit himself until his fist was jerky and wild; until he accidentally hit himself in the eye so hard he saw stars, and he bit down on his lip to keep from crying out. Now Mr. Pennyworth would come in and find that, in the absence of anything to tear apart, Dick had torn himself apart, like a creature that could only ever hurt.

 

He didn’t want to _care_ what Mr. Pennyworth thought; Mr. Pennyworth was just like the rest of them, he had the cockroaches eating at his brain too—and so did Dick, and if only he could just get them to stop—if he could only just _get them out—_

Dick plucked up the glass of water Mr. Pennyworth had left him with and chucked it at the ivory vase on the mantelpiece, relishing the wobble as it tilted and tumbled off the shelf, landing on the ground with a crash. Now Mr. Pennyworth would come in and find him, and then Mr. Pennyworth would pack his bags and throw him out into the snow, and Mr. Pennyworth wouldn’t even have to ask Mr. Wayne about it, he would just do it, because he could see that there were so many cockroaches in Dick they were spilling out through his fists. No problem with leaving a child like that to the cold. No problem in losing a boy who can’t stop thinking about that—scream—the scream—

 

He’d never seen the bodies, even. He’d been standing on the ground, waiting to climb the ladder and join his parents. He had been looking over the Gotham crowd, grinning, and then suddenly there was a man jumping the barrier and barreling towards him—and then the scream, God, the _scream—_ and he was being crushed to someone’s chest—and in his ear someone was mumbling, “Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.” And he’d never looked. But he’d heard.

 

Dick’s hands itched. His blood roared. He stopped thinking, and he plucked up a ceramic shard and coiled his fist so tight around it that he felt it cut, and he looked up at the painting over the mantelpiece; yellow, green, and red. A sun setting over a willow tree, surrounded by white flowers. Yellow, green, and red: the suits the Flying Graysons had worn. The red chest, because Dick’s mother had loved robins. He thought he could see what their bodies might have looked like in the twisted array of colors, so he hauled the painting from its perch on the mantelpiece and drove the ivory ceramic shard through it, carving the canvas into a leg twisted wrong, an arm, a bent spine, heads squished flat like what happened to fruit when it was dropped from up high—

 

He carved and carved until he was keening, and the painting was in long, curling shreds, and paint was peeled up in long scores, and there was blood, and the blood was finally his. Dick hissed out a shaky breath, and he picked up the picture, and brought it down hard over the coffee table, until the frame was as lopsided as he imagined his parents’ bodies must have been.

 

Dick sat over the guts of the canvas, breath coming out in harsh whispers. He waited for Mr. Pennyworth to come and throw him outside. Mr. Pennyworth did not come. The clock ticked and saw it all.

 

Eventually Dick became aware enough to sit up, and miserably prod his handiwork—he’d probably ruined a thousand dollar painting, a million dollar painting. He flipped through flaps of canvas, and then, on the back of one section, he saw it; loopy cursive handwriting in light pencil, reading, _for Thomas, from your dearest wife._

 

“Thomas,” Dick breathed. Mr. Wayne had explained that his own parents had died, and that he felt he could provide Dick some understanding—his father’s name had been Thomas, Dick knew—his father’s name had been _Thomas._ This had been the late Mrs. Wayne’s work. Dick could imagine that it had taken hours of delicate persistence, hours upon hours upon hours, hours she spent because she loved her husband; he wondered if Bruce ever looked at with a sense of happiness, some comfort, knowing at least that his parents had loved each other before death. Dick had taken that away. Dick had taken all of that away.

 

“No, no, no,” Dick said, rapidly, trying to flip the canvas pieces together so they formed a picture again, trying to force the wooden beams that made the frame together so it could stand again—he tried, and failed. He leaned back on his heels and looked at the mess in front of him and tore at his hair, pulling it out in clumps that fell to floor like strokes from a stick of charcoal. “No!”

 

Now Mr. Pennyworth wouldn’t be the one to throw him out; it’d be the nice Mr. Wayne, who would hate him forever and want nothing to do with him—Dick imagined Mr. Wayne looking down at him and sneering, exactly like Danny Rolsh had, but it would be all the worse because this time Dick deserved it.

 

Dick didn’t want to see that. He didn’t want to—he didn’t want to look—

 

Dick stopped thinking. A sort of panic came over him, but with the panic came detachment, and with the detachment came a plan; he could run away right now, and never have to see the look on Mr. Wayne’s face. Mr. Pennyworth wouldn’t have to throw him out if he left. It would be easier for all of them if Dick would just march himself into the snow and never come back, and maybe the cold would nab at the fire in him. Maybe the cold would kill the cockroaches that made him so mean all the time.

 

Dick opened the window, a gush of winter air buffeting him, and swung himself out of it, easing himself onto the branch of one of the young, dormant oak trees that sprouted up around the Manor. The Manor was strange—it was big and clearly came from wealth, but its gardens were dilapidated, not like the gardens of the other houses Dick saw. The trees grew where they pleased, and so they crowded against the Manor, shielding it, almost.

 

Dick ambled out along the branch, and swung from one to another until he was nearing the trunk of the tree, which he wrapped his arms around and slid to the bottom.

 

He figured that Bruce might come for him, to yell at him, maybe, or force him to pay for all the damage he’d caused—but he remembered that Bruce’s parents had died in the streets, and figured there was a spot in the city where he’d never think to look.

 

-

 

The crunch of street slush and ice woke Dick up, and blearily, he raised his head; he didn’t remember falling asleep, but after hours of walking to get here, he must have.

 

Two yellow lights winked at him from the edge of the alley. The silhouette of a tall, broad man walked through one scattered beam of light, and Dick pushed himself closer to the dumpster he was hiding behind, hoping against hope it wasn’t Mr. Wayne.

 

The man’s footsteps moved towards the dumpster—the white beam of a flashlight swung beneath it, and Dick cursed his luck.

 

“Dick. I know you’re there,” Mr. Wayne said. His voice was softer than Dick had imagined it would be. “I’m sorry we’ve upset you, kiddo. Can you tell me what we did in the car?”

 

Dick stilled. “You didn’t upset me,” he mumbled, miserably, knowing he was found out, and mystified Mr. Wayne thought it was him who had been the upsetting one in this situation.

 

He heard Mr. Wayne come to the side of the dumpster, but he didn’t appear in Dick’s view. “Dick, kiddo, I really need you to come out. You’ve been out here for hours. We need to get you in some heat. Can you do that for me?”

 

“No,” Dick said. “You…. shouldn’t want me to. I messed up your ma’s painting.”

 

“That’s alright.”

 

“No, it’s not!” Dick shrieked. “I keep—I keep—I keep—”

 

Dick stopped, blew out a breath. Mr. Wayne waited patiently. Finally, Dick said, “I keep breakin’ things. I don’t wanna break your things.”

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mr. Wayne sighed. “Those are just things. It was a vase, and a glass, and a painting, and that’s it.”

 

“Your ma made that!” Dick screamed. “I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have—”

 

“Come out for a minute, please, Dick,” Mr. Wayne said. “I’m not angry with you. I promise. I just want to talk.”

 

Dick crawled out, and stood, hunched against the wall. Mr. Wayne, who was wearing a big, black coat with fur lining that made him look like a bit like bear, knelt to the ground and beckoned him over. Dick slunk forward nervously.

 

“Can I touch you,” Mr. Wayne said, frankly. It was a question without the inflection. Dick nodded, and then there were two gloved hands holding his arms.

 

“Dick,” he said. “Do you feel bad that you punched Mr. Rolsh.”

 

“I mean—yeah.”

 

“Do you feel bad that you broke the vase.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Do you feel bad about the painting.”

 

“Y-yeah.”

 

“Alright,” Bruce said. “Then that’s enough for me. Dick. We shouldn’t break things, but sometimes we do anyway. That’s when we apologize.”

 

“I know, Mr. Wayne, but—”

 

“No buts,” Bruce interrupted. “And call me Bruce. I promise that neither I or Alfred are angry with you. Will you sit with me in the car, and talk it over?”

 

“Okay,” Dick mumbled.

 

Bruce stood, and walked him over to the car, opening the door for him. Bruce hurried around the other side, and slid in, turning up the heat dial. “Let’s get you out of that wet coat,” he said, and he unzipped it and gently tugged it off Dick’s shoulders, tossing it in the backseat; he pulled off Dick’s boots and socks, checking Dick’s toes to make sure they were fine, and then rolled a pair of fluffy socks over them. Then he did the same with Dick’s hands and a pair of gloves; he brought out a towel, and carefully dried Dick’s hair. Up until this point, Dick had sat through these ministrations just savoring the kind touch, but here Bruce offered him a pair of fresh pajamas and turned to the window while Dick changed.

 

Bruce unzipped his jacket. “Alright, c’mere,” he said. “You’re still cold as ice.”

 

Dick slid over, and then Bruce hauled him in his lap and wrapped him up in his jacket; the faux fur lining was soft against his cheek. Bruce dipped an arm into the backseat and tossed a blanket over them both, and by now Dick was starting to feel closer and closer to warmth.

 

“Now,” Bruce said, tilting Dick’s face up and peering at it, “I want to ask you if you got that black eye from Mr. Danny Rolsh.”

 

“I did it,” Dick said, turning his gaze down. He pressed himself closer against Bruce, hoping this display of violence wouldn’t make the man kick him out of the car.

 

“Are you sorry for doing it.”

 

“I can’t be,” Dick said.

 

“Just that eye of yours is far more precious than anything you broke today. Your hand, too. You are deeply valuable. I want you to see that.”

 

Dick was quiet. “I thought that… hitting myself, it was because I didn’t have anyone to hit. Because I’m… bad.”

 

“You aren’t bad,” Bruce rumbled, and his hand cupped Dick’s head and rubbed circles into his hair. “You’re hurt. When you hurt yourself, and other people, and break things, it’s because this,” and here Bruce tapped a finger to Dick’s chest, “hurts a lot, and you’re trying to find ways to make it hurt less.”

 

“How do you know it’s not just me,” Dick mumbled into Bruce’s sweater. “What if I’m just… bad.”

 

“Am I bad?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay,” Bruce said. “Did you know Alfred used to smoke?”

 

“Mr. Pennyworth? Smoke?”

 

“You can call him Alfred, if you want. And yeah, he used to smoke, he used to smoke all the time.”

 

He pulled his left glove off with his teeth, and held it out. He’d never seen Bruce without gloves on, before, and now that made sense; his hands were covered by gnarled, twisted scarring.  “He quit because I would steal his Zippo lighters and I would burn my hands with them. So. Am I bad?”

 

“No,” Dick said, softly.

 

“So you aren’t, either,” Bruce said. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself. It’s not good to hurt yourself. But you are not bad.”

 

Dick stared at Bruce’s hand—the hard, warped, purpled skin there. He reached out and grabbed Bruce’s hand and pressed a kiss to it. “I’m sorry,” he said, by way of explanation.

 

Bruce watched him quietly, a faraway look on his face. “When you feel that bad, I want you to come find me. If you ever feel bad, I want you to come find me, alright?”

 

Dick nodded. “... thank you, Bruce. I—I shouldn’ta made you come all the way to Crime Alley.”

 

“I don’t mind coming out to Park Row for you,” Bruce said.

 

“Park Row?”

 

“That’s its name. Call it by its name.”

 

Dick nodded, and offered a big yawn. “Hey, Bruce, what do I do if you’re not there and I… well, I…”

 

Bruce stopped, and thought for a minute. “There’s a cornerstore right there. I’m going to walk to it, and get you something. Will you stay?”

 

“Sure,” Dick said. He regretted agreeing when Bruce’s warmth was gone, but Bruce was back fast enough with a square cardboard box.

 

Dick, who had started to fall asleep again, scrubbed at his eyes. “What’s that?”

 

“It’s a Rubik’s Cube,” Bruce said. “When you feel like that, and I’m not there, call me, and while I’m on my way, try and solve it.”

 

He twisted the cube up, so all the colors were mixed, and tossed it to Dick. Dick studied it curiously. “It’s like a mystery. Y’know, I kinda like mysteries.”

 

“So do I,” Bruce said, backing out of the alley.

 

“Like the Hardy Boys,” Dick murmured, toying with the cube.

 

“Just like that, chum,” Bruce said. “Just like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> ............ and that's the story of how Bruce starting calling Dick, "chum," all the time. You really thought me, goddamn me of all people, would forget that canon? Nonsense. 
> 
> And that's it! Hope you enjoyed. If you didn't, please don't yell at me, I am but a shrieking cockatoo on the internet


End file.
